


Love is the Colour of Blood

by seraphim_grace



Category: Angel: the Series, Supernatural
Genre: After care, BDSM, Comfort, Demons, Dom!Angelus, Dubious Consent, Feeding, Heavy BDSM, M/M, Murder, Sick Dean, Sickness, Sub!Dean, Tattoo, Tattoos, Vampirism, Wolfram and Hart, evil angel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-04
Updated: 2010-08-04
Packaged: 2017-10-10 22:54:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,973
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/105302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seraphim_grace/pseuds/seraphim_grace
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The top floor of the LA Wolfram and Hart building is given over to their CEO, who is currently running his hand slowly over the trembling spine of his pet as he shudders and weeps through the last of his orgasm. This is when Angelus feels his power most keenly, when Dean's defences are shattered and he lies across the desk, shaking and crying and hating himself most of all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Features Dubcon

The top floor of the LA Wolfram and Hart building is given over to their CEO, who is currently running his hand slowly over the trembling spine of his pet as he shudders and weeps through the last of his orgasm. This is when Angelus feels his power most keenly, when Dean's defences are shattered and he lies across the desk, shaking and crying and hating himself most of all.

He kisses him at the small of his back, an inch up from his butt crack, and whispers into the hot skin, "everything you are, belongs to me," and Dean knows that it's true.

In the sunrise through the necrotempered glass the sun rises over LA and Angelus appreciates it- he appreciates the way the sun climbs over the buildings, through the gaps in the sky scrapers and the colour of fire tints the sweat on Dean's back. It's a wonderful sight and Angelus lowers his cold tongue and draws a line along the nubs of Dean's spine as if he can taste the sun there with the sweat and the tang of sex and the perfumes on his skin. Dean vocalises but says nothing, he's beyond words at the moment. So Angelus bites down playfully with his human mouth on the tattoo on Dean's shoulder. It is one of two marks of ownership, the same mark as on Angelus' own shoulder. "You belong to me," he says clearly stretching himself over him. Against his ear, where his lack of breath fails to stir the tiny hairs, "you are mine, Dean Winchester, mine," With his face against the leather blotter, his face mouth distended by the gag Dean fights it. Angelus doesn't care, in fact he prefers it like that.

With a final dragging caress of his fingertips along those delightful ridges of Dean's spine, along a set of scars from a lucky wendigo, and down over the ass, then slaps the skin hard. Dean vocalises again, his body jerking despite the ties holding him to the desk drawers and the spreader bar between his knees. Angelus smiles, Dean wouldn't be half as much fun if he didn't fight it.

By the time Angelus leaves the shower, noting the red places on his own skin and how the last of the blood is leaving him cold as opposed to cool, that Dean is past shuddering and has started shivering. Angelus smiles to himself, his shirt open along his chest as he picks up the remote and turns the fireplace on. "you did well today," he tells Dean, "I might undo you later." Then with another slap to the ass he goes to his office and the day ahead.

****

Harmony unties Dean. She looks almost official except for the concern on her face. Dean doesn't want the pity of a stinking vampire. Even one as basically harmless as Harmony, although she does remind him of a vampire he iced once. She stands testament to the fact that he is a hunter, that he should easily be able to take one of the axes off the wall, he knows they're not decorative, and take the Master's head clean off.

Leaving Wolfram and Hart afterwards would be futile, the senior partners would send the entire building to take down the useless human who took out their golden boy. The irony is that for all his cruelty the Master controls the netherworld in LA, there is not a demon or entity that does not bow to him and he will kill for Dean, because it amuses him. Dean knows there is no other reason to anything that the Master does.

The Master does what he does only because it amuses him.

Harmony is wearing pink, her hair in a pony, and she's got a warm wool robe for him, it's entirely lined in combed sheepskin as she undoes the knots and offers him wet wipes to take care of the worst of the mess. There are underlings to take care of the desk.

She is used to this, Harmony, and she might argue with the Master later, over cups of warm otter blood. The Master despises her as weak, but she can do her job and that alone is worth her wage. He tolerates her arguments and the one time she tried to defy him he threw her across the room.

She knows where she stands with Dean.

She does not look at what belongs to the Master.

She does not touch what belongs to the Master.

Instead she brings him his robe, soft and warmed over the fire, a bottle of gatorade or some other isotonic drink and hot chocolate. Once there was a bacon sandwich on the tray. There's not this time.

Dean eats when the Master eats. He eats what the Master gives him because his master can't eat human food and so he watches as Dean eats and has Dean describe the taste, the sensation of it. Sometimes the Master leaves him hungry so he can describe that to him too.

It's one of the Master's favourite games, Dean knows.

Dean knows what is expected of him now. He is to drink the chocolate to replace the sugar he must have lost. He is to drink the gatorade for the liquids and salt, even though it's blue and he considers that the worst flavour. Then wearing the robe, which makes him shapeless like one of the demons from Verification, he will attend to his Master.

The wet wipes are from Harmony.

Dean doesn't look at her, he doesn't thank her, he did once and the Master broke her jaw. The Master doesn't like people touching what belongs to him.

"He says you're to shower before going out," Harmony says, "I'm to lay you out some clothes. You better be quick, he seems pissed."

Dean doesn't have to be told twice. He showers quickly, using his Master's soap, because that's what the Master prefers he tells himself, and then lotion all over. His Master shaved him as part of his game this morning. Dean doesn't lie about what he is, not now.

Sometimes he tells himself that he's in wait, waiting for the Master to reveal some error, some mistake and then Dean will kill him. Dean wants it to be true.

He wears the clothes that Harmony lays out for him. Soft wool slacks with a leather belt, a sage green button down and tie, and a matching grey jacket. Dean suspects that they belonged to someone else, because he sometimes find things in the pockets that never belonged to him: a pair of glasses; ticket stubs to the opera... but he doesn't question.

His Master's office is large with couches lined in front of the window, but that is not where he has Dean sit. Beside his chair, which looks like something Captain Kirk would like, is a soft silk cushion. That is for Dean.

Beside it is a metal cannister of freshly brewed coffee, the sort that are vacuum packed to keep it hot, and a paperback novel. Dean assumes he must have pleased the Master for such gifts. He sits, crosslegged, on the cushion, and as he has been schooled so many, too many times, lays his head against his Master's thigh.

If Dean resists his Master just moves him, cold fingers in his hair until he gives in. Dean has learned to keep the little victories, the coffee, the paperback and give into the battles he has no hope in. If the Master did not want him here Dean would still be across the desk in the back room, open and vulnerable. Not sat here in someone else's suit, reading someone else's paperback and drinking coffee from someone else's cup.

His Master has the best in all things and his coffee is no exception. Although he cannot eat solid food he does drink most things that pass his way, and coffee more than most. So the coffee is a rich blend of Mountain grown columbian beans that taste like ashes and damnation on Dean's tongue.

Sometimes his master holds it in his open mouth whilst he Dean is forced to lap at it like a bird. The only way it works with their difference in height is with his master on that chair, Dean with his thighs spread over him, hands on the back of the chair over his Master's shoulder leaning down.

Dean's cock, worn out and sore, gives a traitorous lurch at the image. He's gotten good at ignoring it and lifts the book. It's the same one he's been reading these past three days, something that is not always a given, sometimes he is given books well beyond his understanding or that just make no sense like Jacques Derrida or Stephanie Meyer, but sometimes when his Master is well pleased with his service he's allowed to pick the books himself and finish them in his own time.

"On the Road" is his favourite book, and his Master knows that, so when Dean has been exceptional, when he hasn't argued, when he's been obeisant, his Master sets it out for him.

Once sex drunk and belly full with Dean's blood, as Dean lay in his Master's bed, with an IV giving him back what he had lost, his Master drinking from a warmed bag with a straw like it was one of those soft cartons of kid's juice, his Master told him how he had known Kesey and Cassady and Kerouac, and Kerouac was an ass but, he wiped at his mouth with a blood stained hand and Dean pretended not to listen, Cassady was cool. He was sweet. He tasted soooo good.

Dean knows his Master is much older than him, and vampires lie. He doesn't care about the provenance of the book, he just likes the idea of two men going across America in the back of other people's cars.

He reads and rereads his favourite passage, as his Master absently plays with his hair, not sure when the book will be taken from him again, when Dean and Sal are playing in the back of the fag plymouth, showing extreme affection just because it's fun and it's funny and there's laughter between them.

Dean tells himself the passage doesn't remind him of his brother. He doesn't think of his brother. He doesn't miss his brother. It just gives his Master one of those victories Dean can't even challenge. He belongs to his Master. Sam is of the time before. So with the book open, with the coffee taste lingering in his mouth he lays his head against his Master's thigh, and feels the cold fingers twine through his hair and rub soothing circles on his scalp with his fingertips.

****

Dean lies naked and freshly fucked on a blanket on his Master's couch, his head pillowed on his Master's lap as his Master slowly strokes along his shoulder and arm.

Across the city the sun is slowly rising. Dean doesn't mind this part of their daily ritual. It's funny how of all the things he does with his Master it is this one that reminds him he has nowhere else to go, he rubs his face against his master's naked thigh, no one else wants him, so why shouldn't he be here. The sun will rise everywhere but his Master appreciates it, truly, in the way only someone truly deprived can, and he shares it with Dean.

It has to mean something, Dean wonders, doesn't it?

***

The girl is literally fresh from the boat, one of Sergei's specials. She's blonde, they always are, with blown pupils and even Dean can smell the fear from her. "She'll be fine," His master says giving her the most cursory once over, she's just food after all. He'll feed from her a few times and if she doesn't die then either pass her down the food chain or to the brothels.

Dean used to care what got these girls into this position but he doesn't anymore.

He doesn't like the way his Master looks at them.

He tells himself it's because he wants to save them.

He tells himself a lot of things.

Dean knows that if he feeds his Master tonight that he will be exhausted tomorrow but the girl gets a reprieve. She gets another day. But it's too soon, he knows, he's still weak.

That's what he tells himself at any rate.

***

Dean sleeps at the foot of his Master's bed. Sometimes his Master allows him to sleep in the bed. His Master has black sheets because they are best for hiding the blood.

Dean doesn't think that the people who launder them would care, or dare comment.

This is the second bed, the first split open after a blow from a halberd. Dean knows that the weapons aren't decorative because he tries, now and again, to use them to break free.

Dean has a rug, and a cushioned cage for when he is especially defiant, but he's done everything asked of him today without comment, thinking of the Russian girls lolling hand as the Master fed. He feels the rage of it like a volcano in his stomach. His master will need to feed soon, and Dean can protect the girl from the second helping with a distraction at least.

Dean knows what to do. He knows what his Master likes. The central air is set to cool. The fire is switched on in the grate. His Master doesn't feel the cold but he likes firelight. He likes the way it dances and fondles over wet skin.

The music from Giselle is playing softly from the hidden speakers.

Dean knows what his Master likes.

His Master is looking at him with inquisitive, dark eyes. Sometimes his expressions are soft. Now he looks amused. Dean is kneeling at the end of the bed, he is holding out the blindfold himself between his hands. It's for her, Dean tells himself, if he's occupied with me he won't touch her, I won't hear her whimper and groan if he makes me do it instead.

"I want to see your eyes," His master says, and his voice is a low growl. "I'm not going to restrain you tonight, Dean, you're going to lie there, and you're going to take it, aren't you?" Dean nods slowly, swallowing. "We're going to make a deal, you and I?" He uses his nail to softly scratch a cross into Dean's cheek.

His Master makes deals like demons do, so that he wins in the long run.

"You will keep your eyes open." His Master's words feel like a threat. "I will give you a word, Dean, and if you say it I will stop, and I'll get that girl and do to her what I am going to do to you." Dean swallows, and licks his lips. "You are MINE," the emphasis is on that last word, "and I won't kill you, but you will be surprised what you can live through."

"Yours" Dean says and hates that it's true. Hates the thrill that runs through him with his Master's words, with his careful, quiet diction. "I won't say it." It's a reassurance, a strength, a goad. They've played this game before and Dean has always, always given in. "Give me the word, but I won't say it."

"Cordelia." It's like a whisper. "Say Cordelia and I'll stop."

Sammy would have known why Cordelia, who she was, why it matters. To Dean, it's just a word, just like Giselle is just noise.

"Kiss me," his master smiles, because normally there is none of that between them. He waits for his Master to shift to his vampire face, all ridges and teeth, but he doesn't.

His Master is hard and cool beneath Dean's hands, beneath his mouth, like he's been sculpted out of stone. He's broader than Dean by maybe a handsbreadth again, and it's muscle, solid and his tongue is warm, testament to having fed recently, against Dean's tongue. Dean imagines he can taste the blood as he straddles his Master.

His Master kisses him like kissing is an end to itself, that all he wants is kissing and those cold, heavy hands on the curve of Dean's hips, but just resting there, Dean's own hands are on his Master's shoulders and all the hairs along his arms are standing up from the cold whilst the sweat forms on his back from the fire.

His master kisses him like he could crawl up into him via his mouth, as if he could consume by very nature of spirit and spit and teeth and tongue and mouth and murmur. The bearing down of fingertips upon the bone of his hip. The suction on his lower lip and the hot and the cold and Dean pulls away to catch his breath with great ragged sucks, like he was underwater as his Master trails his talented tongue, and his sharp human teeth along his adam's apple, scraping a path with his teeth and soothing the hurt with a broad sweep of his tongue.

His Master's hands are commanding as they stroke up and down Dean's sides and Dean can almost forget that this is his Master and not just a lover, and it's at times like this he hates himself the most as his body turns to the cool man who pleasures it. He wishes everything were this simple, just flesh meeting flesh seeking pleasure - but he waits for the inevitable pain.

Sometimes, when his master has just fed and is feeling indulgent it is just fucking and he's hot and Dean can close his eyes and pretend its' someone else, someone human, but lately he's been fantasising about the man that his Master must have been before. He is handsome, Dean admits that, but he can be so cruel.

And Dean's head is falling back, baring more of his throat to the vampire and waits for the bites. There are scars enough there. He waits as teeth scrape and tongue bathes and he waits. His Master's fingers dig calming circles and he waits.

His Master knows because he chuckles and Dean feels it in his cock, which is stirring like the traitor it is. And his Master is forcing the tension from the muscles at the back of his neck with hard dry fingertips. He can feel the nails catch on the skin, pulling away the tension.

It almost feels good but Dean is waiting, waiting for the act that will push him over, which will force him to say it, to say Cordelia, and then his Master will have won, yet again.

His Master always wins in the end, but Dean tries. He fights. He fights with all the training his father gave him, Bobby gave him, what he learned on his own, but how is he supposed to fight this? How is he supposed to fight the soft pads of thumbs over pebbled nipples. How is he supposed to fight the mouth that kisses and doesn't bite?

What incantations are there to dispel a soft bed and a strong man?

What weapons does one use against the hand that cradles the back of his neck and pulls him in for a kiss that feels like drowning?

What charms can stop the tremulous thrill that shivers up and down his spine when his Master repeats the declaration of ownership, when his master says "you're mine"?

There is a security in that, knowing that his Master will never leave, because everyone leaves, his Master will bore of him eventually, but then his Master will kill him, because he doesn't share.

If Dean was set free someone might use him against his Master, and his Master won't allow that. So his Master will never leave him behind, and Dean tries to tell himself that that doesn't matter so much to him.

That the hand stroking his spine so softly doesn't matter.

That the mouth running over the cords of his neck doesn't matter.

That the dark hair his own fingers find don't matter.

That the muscles that ripple along the Master's back as he leans back into the pillow don't matter.

Nothing matters except this battle and Dean knows he will never win. He cant win.

If he does win, his Master will be one more person to leave him behind.

But he has to fight. He has to. It's what he is. He has no other choice.

So he fights. He rolls them over so his Master is above him, which might not have worked as well as he planned. His Master seems vast, overwhelming, pressing him into the dark coloured sheets with his long cool thighs against Dean's thighs, against his cock and it shouldn't feel good. But it does.

Dean knows that he should fight. His Master wants him to fight. He wants him to struggle, to complain to say Cordelia, but he won't. This is his way of fighting. He isn't giving his Master what he wants, but the way that his Master is kissing and stroking and groaning against his mouth, pulling Dean's hips down against his own.

It will take hours Dean knows, glad of the fire, of the chill of his Master's skin. So when his Master finally penetrates him Dean feels full, makes him feel wanted, makes him feel owned.

It's too much, it's overwhelming, it's so good, he wants it to stop. How can he fight? how can he resist this? He wants to say the word, if he says the word, says Cordelia, his Master will stop. He will get that girl, that poor whore from some place Dean can't pronounce. He will do this to her instead. So when the pain starts he will do it to her.

So instead Dean chokes back the word. He spreads his legs a little wider, he angles his hips a little higher, he pushes his head back into the pillow a little more and closes his eyes.

"Eyes open," his Master purrs against his chin. And Dean cracks them open. His Master's face is just above him, and his eyes are open, close enough that Dean could count the lashes on his eyes if he could concentrate on anything but their inky blackness and the push and pull within him. Black hair and black eyes and black sheets and Dean is falling, and he's unravelling and the pain is inevitable. "Look at me." His Master repeats and Dean does, his hand reaching up to bring his Master's head down, because when they kiss he doesn't have to see those black black eyes.

His Master turns him so Dean rises above him, his back arching and his Master's hands curving up his sides, up his shoulders, his arms falling back. It angles the cool penetration within him so it covers him entirely. Every tissue, every piece of his entire body is fascinated by the sensation, by those black eyes and that thin mouth and the firelight and the chill of the air set below comfortable and the crackling and spitting of the gas fire behind them.

He is fighting. He doesn't say the word as his master makes him drown in sensation, in blackness and want and need.

He doesn't say the word as the blackness explodes within him and he hears his Master murmur, "my hunter, mine."

***

Dean is surprised when Bela Talbot comes into his Master's office holding a clip board. He was quite sure that she was dead. She is wearing a black suit and fuck you heels. From where he sits Dean can see the lace garter on her designer stockings. "I thought you went to Hell," Dean said waiting on his Master to cuff him about the back of his head.

"My contract was bought out. I work in acquisitions for Angelus here at Wolfram and Hart." She replies serpent smooth. "And yours too, I see."

"Fuck you," Dean grates.

"Maybe later," His Master purrs Both he and Bela stiffen. "Now Bela, did you bring me what I asked for."

Bela grins, reptile wide, cruel and lipstick red with sharp white teeth. "Don't I always, maybe one of these days we can talk about paying me properly for my services."

His Master leans back in his chair and his hand on Dean's head is firm, possessive. Bela steps back, and even Harmony, stood waiting on his Master to deliver some order, even if it's only for coffee. Dean clutches at the paperback in his hands, rather than the cushion. He doesn't want to show weakness in front of Bela. There is nothing weak about belonging to his Master.

"Just that these things are expensive and..." Bela can't match his Master's stare. Very few can. "The Witch wanted to know why, she says she won't trade any more without information about what you need the sphere for."

"The sphere," his Master drawls in his soft voice. "Is for giving a vampire a soul." And then he smiles, "it's the most exquisite torture, saved only for the worst offenders, because it subjugates the demon, restores the humanity and leaves the thirst." He sounds like he knows what he's talking about. "And of course when you think like that you don't want the demon to win, and the only way to break the spell is through a moment of perfect happiness. Ironic really." He looks at Bela, his hand carding through Dean's hair. "Tell Willow that, it's not like she hasn't done the spell herself once or twice."

Bela adjusts her jacket, using the motion to rebuild her arrogance. "I didn't know you knew her."

His Master smiles, slipping into his vampire face. "Don't even presume to guess what I do or don't know."

"My problem, of course," Bela agrees. "And I also managed to get some of that coffee you like, direct from the plantation in Columbia, the one with the cats." Something passes between Bela and his Master then because Dean feels the fingers tighten in his hair. "Anything else you need, enchanted leather thongs perhaps?"

"No," his Master answers softly, "what you brought me is more than enough, and you did include the collar of Dharkur Wat?"

"I did," she told him, "and I must admit it doesn't look like it was worth the effort. It's down in R&amp;D now."

As simple as that his Master loses interest in Bela. "Harmony, fetch me the collar." He says, "and Bela, you'll find your new orders in your office." Bela smiles and nods, "as you wish," but even as she says it it's snide and she has restored her armour and leaves.

***

Dean expects the collar of Dharkur Wat to come in a wooden box covered in sigils, or even a hunter's trunk, covered in marks and locks. It's in a paper carrier bag and comes on a silver tray with a pair of tongs. Harmony lays it on his Master's desk and looks at Dean quite sadly.

His Master tears open the bag, as if it was something like a sandwich, it's a simple silver circle with a smaller one inside it. The two rings are utterly separate apart from a silver thread between them. "This," he says swivelling his chair to face Dean, "is some of the oldest magic Wolfram and Hart has, undo your tie."

Dean had known as soon as it was mentioned that the collar was for him.

His Master's hands are cold, but the silver is warm, liquid, feeling like a tendril around his neck, and then it forms, lapping over itself and snapping shut. His Master looks at him and then smiles. Still smiling with his cold dark eyes he lifts the thinner circle snapping it over his own wrist. "You belong to me," he says it like a promise, or a threat, "this thread between us is now absolute until I agree to set you free. If someone threatens what is mine pull on the thread and I will come."

Dean reacts with fight because it sounds like commitment, it sounds like he might want it. "You going to get me a bell as well? You know, to go with my collar, cage and pillow, have me eat out of a bowl on the floor."

His Master just smiles. "Are you trying to tempt me?" He asks. He pats his thigh telling Dean to sit there, and when he does he slips his cold arms around Dean's waist, untucking the shirt he's wearing before taking it off completely. It was a buttondown and now it's just rags. He kisses the vein just above the collar and then tilts Dean's head before nipping the flesh over his carotid. This isn't feeding, he knows, as his Master suckles- this is a reminder that he is owned and he should be grateful for the treasures his Master gives him. It's to remind him that not all master's are so indulgent.

***

When his Master puts on "Can't smile without you," Dean physically groans, rolls over on his pillow and starts humming to himself. Like it isn't bad enough when he plays Giselle or some other ballet- he keeps threatening to take Dean knowing it will be in some secluded box where he can fuck him whilst the audience knows nothing.

"It's pretty," his Master laughs, lying back on his bed and singing along badly out of tune.

Dean just groans again and tries to bury his face in his pillow whilst the room is ebullient with the sound of Barry Manilow complaining about lost love. The collar around his throat burns hotly for a moment, never painful but impossible to ignore. "I could make you dance," his Master says and laughs again. "beer!" he choruses, "we shall have beer and you will sing with me."

His Master is using the collar for control, to take over the little things as well as his flesh for his sexual urges. His Master wants him to sing, which Dean doesn't mind because there is no one here to see except the Master and he's awful anyway, but to Barry Manilow... Dean's sure that there are hells dedicated just to that.

***

"If I turned you," his Master says, "you'd be mine forever, you'd never change and I could have this tight ass until time stopped." He punctuates it with a dry thrust, "but then you'd be a demon wouldn't you," he bites down on the meat of Dean's shoulder, "and you wouldn't be mine for long. You wouldn't fight me any more."

To Dean that is everything he needs to know, all the details because his Master has crystallised it, he only wants him whilst he fights, whilst he bucks against the collar pulling his head up and back, almost choking him, to the cock balls deep inside him.

Dean's arms are behind his back, his wrists tied to his ankles so he's bent almost back anyway as his Master tugs on the collar around his neck.

Dean's looked for a clasp on the collar but can't found one. The chain between them is sylvan, fey, but Dean feels it tug as it pulls his head back, bending his back and pushing him further down unto the cock he's impaled on.

There is a buzzing cockring about his own cock, tormenting him as it prevents his own orgasm, "the irony is there, hunter," his Master says, not usually loquacious during fucking, "making you a monster," and he grunts out a laugh into the short hair behind Dean's ear.

***

Dean sits on the blanket on the floor beside his Master, watching the sun set through the necrotempered glass, the leash lying dormant between them, miles and moments of silver and mage, and the last lines of "On the Road" sound in his head, "nobody knows what's going to happen to anybody besides the forlorn rags of growing old," and Dean smiles to himself because his Master will never grow old, will never change, and as much as he might hate him he will never leave him behind.

His Master understands this and with his fingers carding through Dean's hair he murmurs "Down in Denver, down in Denver All I did was die." And Dean knows the passage well enough to understand as he tugs his head away from the possessive fingers, fighting him even in this.


	2. Love is just a bloodsport

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It is when summer rolls around into autumn that Dean realises that his contract with Hell has expired. That his contract is, in fact, months overdue. He doesn't believe for an instant that Hell has just let him go, that they've decided that this thing he has with his Master is punishment enough.

It is when summer rolls around into autumn that Dean realises that his contract with Hell has expired. That his contract is, in fact, months overdue. He doesn't believe for an instant that Hell has just let him go, that they've decided that this thing he has with his Master is punishment enough.

"You bought it out," he says to his Master, hands clenched at his sides, face flushed with anger. His Master looks at him with an open amusement. "You bought out my contract."

His Master laughs out loud, soft and warm, "this is a law office," he answers as if it was obvious, as if it should have been perfectly obvious to Dean had he stopped to think about it. "Who do you think does their paperwork, Dean?" he stands up and slinks across the room to Dean, leaning in beside him to scent his hair like an animal, "you are mine, absolutely, body and soul."

"Give it back." Dean says thinking he might waver, he might break. "Just give it back."

His Master's lips brush lightly against the vein on his neck, between collar and chin. There is no breath to stir the hairs there however and his grip on Dean's other shoulder is absolute. "No," he answers and rubs his hips against Dean.

"My brother." Dean starts but he can't find the words. He searches and searches but all he can think of is the cold lips at his throat.

His Master laughs, and Dean feels that against his skin, cold dusty air on warm skin. "Secured, safe, couldn't have you running off for him, you belong to me." He scrapes his teeth, sharp so sharp and still human flat, over the skin, laving the hurts with a cold tongue. "He works for us, though he doesn't know it, safe," he bites down, just hard enough to sensitise the skin, "secure, in research." Then he bites with his vampire mouth, the shift happening as he spoke and Dean feels the warmth of his own blood well and then blush into his master. "Mine," his master repeats against the wound, "body and soul."

He licks at the blood as it slowly pools on the skin, as Dean's knees give way under him. "You should be grateful," his master says, his mouth covered in blood, "not all masters are so generous."

"Don't hurt him." Dean manages.

"And what will you give me for him?" his master asks, face against Dean's face, mouth to mouth with the stains of Dean's blood between them.

"I am yours," Dean manages, "isn't that enough."

The taste of his own blood floods his mouth as the vampire teeth cut his tongue, over his lips, lubricating their kiss. His master has his fingers on the bite on his neck so it will stop bleeding. This was a taste; a reminder. "Never enough," his Master says, and lifts him up by his belt, "never ever enough."

His back hits the bed hard, slamming the air from him. "Please me and I shall even let you speak to him."

"Please, no," Dean says, "just let me know he's safe."

"You will take me at my word, that's new." His Master seems chagrined rather than pleased at that. "I won't use your brother against you, Dean," he growls, "I don't have to. He is safe and useful to me where he is, that should be enough."

His Master has lost his ardour now and Dean knows he will be made to suffer for it later. "I," Dean starts, the words gone again.

"Enough. You do not believe me, do you? You think that he is dead," he turns and hollers, "Harmony!"

She comes in with a scurry, her hair in its distinctive high pony, and her Malibu Barbie pink suit, but she has toed off her shoes and didn't take the time to put them back on. Dean can see the seams of her tan stockings across her toes. "You want me, Boss?" she asks.

"Set up a video conference," he says, "with the Dean of Occult studies at Berkeley and his new assistant. Someone needs to be reminded of his place."

And Dean knows now how he will suffer for this, what his Master will make Sam see, at best him bowed, tied with this ancient silver collar, a pet for his Master, and at worst him tied, suspended for his Master's pleasure. This will be his punishment, Dean knows, and he would prefer the usual pain.

***

Dean wakes up in his Master's bed, rare enough to be worth mentioning. He stretches himself out in the black cotton sheets and just enjoys the pull of his muscles against each other. His Master had set up a mirror at the bottom of the bed the previous night so that Dean could see his own body react to his Master's touches without his Master's reflection getting in the way.

Just the thought of it has Dean's cock starting to swell. The ropes are neatly gathered on the side, with his gag and the bed smells of his Master. There are marks over his body, hickeys and bites and scratches, for their bedplay is rarely gentle, and he runs his fingertips over one of them. He scratches over one of the bites with his bitten fingernails.

Dry palms part his thighs so he can see his cock as it stirs and rises. He squeezes his balls and licks his lips as he watches himself touch himself in the mirror.

"Don't stop on my account." His Master says from the door. So Dean doesn't, he just watches himself in the mirror, his Master visible as a shadow in the corner of his eye.

***

His Master delights in the unexpected, in keeping Dean on his toes. So he lets Dean see his brother on the video on his own and fully dressed, shirt buttoned up to hide the collar he wears. Dean is acutely aware of it though, hot against his skin and heavy as a millstone.

Sam looks well.

More than just well kept, he looks healthy, well fed. He has a pair of reading glasses stuck in that unruly mop of hair, pinned up and clearly forgotten, there is a smudge of ink on a ruddy cheek. He's wearing a tee and shirt and looks happy. That hurts Dean, he looks genuinely happy.

This is his Master's punishment, that he has done something for Sam that Dean never could. He's healthy and happy and safe. He also looks overjoyed to see Dean. "I mean they told me you were okay, that you were hunting in LA and were deep undercover but, I mean I would have known, I'm sure but...."

Dean lets him continue on. "I'm fine, Sammy," he says and his voice is thick. There are a million things he wants to say but the words aren't there, instead he just reaches out his fingers across the table, as if Sammy were sat there opposite him, and they might brush against him and he'd know he was safe and there and....

He looks happy.

He's telling Dean about his girlfriend, a girl at the university, one of the post grads and she's in a different department, ancient linguistics but they are always working together because she wants the language in his old books and he wants the magic and...

Dean's heart is breaking because Sam is genuinely happy. He's found a place where he belongs, among people as clever as he is, who understand what he needs, "and of course, she's not you, but she can sit through a Nightmare on Elm Street marathon with the best of us." And Sam is babbling, telling him every little detail about his life and around his throat the collar of Dharkur Wat feels like it's made of fire and is so heavy Dean wants to slump.

"Sorry," he says, having missed what Sam said. "I thought I heard something,"

"I said with you only being in LA you could come down sometime, you and whoever you're with, and we could watch monster movies and laugh at them, and it'd be like old times."

He has a momentary vision of his Master sat there in Sam's apartment, sprawled on Sam's couch watching vampire movies. "I don't know, I'll have to talk to Harmony about my schedule."

"Dude, you've got a schedule now," Sam laughs. "Bad ass demon hunter for a bad ass supernatural legal office."

"They keep me on a pretty short leash." Dean agrees ruefully. "Have to make sure I don't accidentally ice one of their clients."

"Man, it's just mad," Sam agrees. "I can't stay and chat I have to take a class of undergrads," he pulls a face, it's not one of his bitch faces so Dean really recognise it. "You still have that cattle prod? I might need it." He grins, "just don't wait so long to call, man, I'm always there for you, no matter when it might be, use the damn phone once in a while."

"I, time slips away, yanno." Dean says.

"I know, but you're my brother, I don't want to lose you again. I'm only in Berkeley, even if I can't come to you, you can come to me." And Dean closes his eyes slowly because he thinks he might cry, that he might be sick. He's suddenly very dizzy.

"I'll see what i can do," he grumbles, then he offers Sam a smile, "bitch."

"Jerk," Sam answers just as quickly. "And, man, you have got to come down, I've got the sweetest exorcism spell, but," he looks over his shoulder, "shit, they're right you know, time does go faster the older you get. I finish classes at six, and my office is open until eight, any time after that you can get me on my cell, otherwise leave me a message. Don't shut me out, not again."

And Dean sighs because he didn't shut his brother out. He left him behind to keep him safe.

After Sam has gone, Dean puts his hand to the conference screen fingers splayed, arm outstretched for long minutes. Then he throws it to the floor.

His Master stands at the door, louche and sophisticated. "How is he?" He asks.

"Happy," Dean answers and stands up, ignoring the broken television on the floor and the broken glass in the carpet. He starts to undo his button down. "Thank you." he says as he toes off his shoes and socks. "You did that for me." He undoes his belt. "Let me thank you properly, Master."

A strange expression flickers through his master's dark eyes as he looks at Dean's body, naked but for the collar around his neck. "I'm hungry." He says, "get dressed, we're going out for dinner."

***

Morning comes so quickly.

Dean is lying in his Master's bed with his head against that smooth white chest as the sun rises over the city. "You have no heartbeat," he says as if it might be a surprise.

"Not for a long time now." His Master agrees, then runs his fingers through Dean's hair softly. "I don't miss it."

"I do," Dean says under his breath because it's just one more reminder that this is a thing between them, that his Master is not human, that his Master is a monster.

"When I was a child," his Master says, his voice as slow as the sunrise, "I would put my head on my father's chest to hear what I thought was his heart beat." Dean listens, drunk on the sunrise, getting ready for sleep, satiated, warm and comfortable, "it turned out to be his pocket watch." It's at times like these that they are closest, when light bleeds into darkness and they lie and watch the sun rise or set over the city of Angels.

***

Harmony gives Dean a new sweater to wear and his Master looks him over, "are you coming?" he asks.

Dean doesn't say anything, his button down hides the collar but he can see the bangle glinting on his Master's arm.

They've been to the restaurant before, it serves a bloody mary with a choice of blood types. Dean used to try and order something awkward but they don't blink, they just filled his order. His Master orders for him, a beer with two fingers of Jose petrona and a twist of lime. He has the celery on the side for Dean to eat. His Master liked celery when he was alive, and appreciates the crunch of it between Dean's teeth.

He watches Dean eat because he can't eat for himself.

Harmony is as bad, but sweet with it, in her innocent evil way. She can hunt him down with a spoon of peanut butter just to watch him roll it around his mouth.

They are seated at an out of the way table, where his Master can watch the ebb and flow of the restaurant without being seen, where Dean is hidden like something shameful behind a curtain.

The waiter takes their order, calmly, without question, a bloody mary and a selection of dishes Dean doesn't recognise. He plays idly with the breadstick waiting for the food to arrive. This isn't about him, he knows; this isn't about Sam. His Master has his own reasons for everything that he does. Dean has long since learned not to question.

Dinner is sausages with onion gravy, champ to the side, small portions, and then cabbage and bacon ribs. It's peasant food and Dean thinks his Master must be feeling homesick.

He eats without question and in the car on the way back when he belches his Master leans in to taste the food on his breath with a kiss. Just like that they are back to what was before. Dean is a treasured pet, a possession.

***

The club is a demon fetishist bar. His Master looks bored and the silver thread between them is openly on display. Dean kneels mostly naked and bored at his Master's feet. The Arch-demon looks on at Dean hungrily. Dean can feel it on his skin although his Master pays no attention.

"I like your boy." The arch demon says coming over. He is naked apart from a green silk sash draped diagonally across his chest. His dangling cock seems to be as wide as Dean's wrist.

His Master turns to look at him. "So do I," he replies. "I don't share." Then he returns to the conversation he is maintaining with the person next to him.

"Then display him, for all to see." The demon says.

His Master is not here for pleasure. This is a work thing. He is here to schmooze with some of his nastier clients. His Master smiles, slow and vicious. "He is a pretty thing," he agrees. "Maybe next time, Otrath." He says, "I've never displayed him before. If I announce that I will people will want to see."

The demon nods, his monster cock, which Dean can't take his eyes off, swinging back and forth. "Not just a little taster? I don't normally like humans," he says that word like an insult, "but I might make an exception for your boy."

His Master appears to mull it over. "Stand up," he says tugging the leash and Dean stands, he is only wearing a pair of green cotton briefs. "Turn around," he turns around and meets his Master's black eyes. He pulls him down so that he is bent over at almost ninety degrees. Then he nods and Dean goes back to kneeling beside him. "Is that enough of a taster, Otrath?" He asks.

The demon is openly stroking his monster cock, handling it in a scaly hand, his nails black and long.

"I'll wait impatiently to see him suspended and blindfolded, a buttplug between those perfect cheeks." Otrath agrees.

"Next time," his Master nods acquiescence.

***

Dean just kneels there and lets his Master use his mouth, hands on either side of his head; hips thrusting raggedly.

Dean wishes he didn't take pleasure from it, but the aching erection between his legs just proves him a liar.

He is naked apart from his collar and his Master only wears the matching cuff on his wrist. He is smeared with sweat. His breathing, a habit from his mortal life, is ragged and gutteral, grunts and half vocalised noises. His head is cast back and he is close.

With a wrench and a groan he pulls his hips back so the head of his cock bumps against Dean's lips and he comes, spraying himself across Dean's face and neck.

Dean's answering snark at this, his inner pride at being marked for all to see and smell immediately suppressed under his fight reaction, is silenced when his Master falls to his knees on the rug heavy enough to hurt, and begins licking his face with long patient strokes, grooming him, wiping him clean. Then he kisses each eye wetly before trailing down to catch Dean's lips with his own, his big hand, cold and rough, wrapping around Dean's erection and he strokes once, twice as Dean leans into him and comes- his shout muffled by his Master's clever tongue.

"Mine," his Master reaffirms into the pleasure that washes over him, "to protect, to please, to keep." And all of Dean's thoughts are like his limbs, made of jello so he can't even deny the way it warms him through.

His Master will never leave him behind. His Master will never let him go.

***

The Arch-demon Otrath has the gall to cry, to genuinely sob, as his intestines are splattered across the floor. His Master is wearing his vampire face, and is wiping the purple coloured blood from his face with the demon's green sash, not even bothering to feed. "You see," he says patiently. "I don't like other people touching my things."

Dean doesn't say anything, the knife that split Otrath open is in his hand, and it's amazing how the weight of it is freeing.

It will leave a message, this, that even his pet can defend himself.

Dean could use the knife against his Master, he could slit his throat and use the opportunity to sever the head, then plunge it into his heart.

He doesn't know why he doesn't.

He just doesn't.

He drops the knife, the demon's blood between them, when his Master kisses him.

The demon is still sobbing when his Master grinds his erection into Dean's own.

***

Dean wakes up hot and itchy and heavy. There is an oxygen tube in his nose and a drip, but the bag on it is clear. He fumbles with the tube but Harmony is there, "no, no" she says putting it back, "you're sick, you've got to have that."

He tries to open his mouth, to figure out what the hell is going on, because he's in a bed but it's not a hospital bed, and Harmony is there, and she's wearing jeans of all things, and his mouth is so dry his tongue feels like a lump of leather.

Then his Master is there with his cool hand over Dean's forehead. "It's okay," he says softly, and Dean wants to crawl all over him because he's cold, he's so wonderfully blessedly cold, and he's so hot, "just sleep."

"Hot," Dean manages to say.

"I know." His Master assures him, "soon, I'm here, now sleep." Dean assumes it's an order, and his master isn't moving that wonderfully, amazingly cool hand from his forehead so Dean sleeps.

 

The next time he wakes up his Master is gone but Sam is there, sitting cross legged on the bed reading his medical chart. "Pneumonia," he tells Dean when he sees his eyes slit open, "sucks to be you."

"Bitch," Dean grates out, mouth furry and tongue heavy.

"Jerk," Sam grins as he offers him a beaker of water with a straw. The water tastes of nothing but starts to wash away that furry taste. "Your boss called, asked me to come up from Berkeley, said you were sick. I told him my brother doesn't get sick, but look at you."

"Happens," Dean slurs out the word, wondering where his Master is. He's still too damn hot. His Master's hands are so cold.

"So Harmony, eh?" Sam offers him a leer, Dean just groans and opens his mouth for more water. "She's kinda hot."

"You've got a girl," Dean corrects. He has to growl it out.

"Maybe I want your girl." Sam is teasing him, and it's so familiar, so family, it hurts.

"'Not my girl." Dean manages and turns his head into the pillow.

"Then I don't want her." Sam says. "You look tired, get some sleep, I'm in a hotel not far from here."

"Stay," Dean manages though the sleep is descending fast.

"You know i will." Sam answers with a smile.

***

Dean can hear his Master and Sam talking about the collar, he's half asleep, heavy limbed and indolent, sickness and antibiotics taking their toll. Weakened immune system they told him, typing pool flu hit him like a truck. You'll be fine. Just rest. Just rest.

The drugs are making him dopey so when he hears Sam say the word inscription he imagines his Master's black eyes brightening as he says "can you read it?"

And Sam can, because Sam is brilliant, wonderful, ingenious. "With this I thee bind." Sam says and Dean wonders, wonders why it's important.

***

Bela doesn't have an office, she has a cubicle in the main requistions and collections office. It's not even a very big one. She is sat in her office chair, phone dangling between her chin and shoulder as she inspects her nails, talking in very perfect French.

When she sees Dean she apologises to the man and puts him on hold. "I don't care what it is, no!" She says firmly.

"It's nothing magical," Dean tells her, hands in the pockets of his designer trousers, "just a thing."

"Your credit's no good, Winchester," she practically drawls it out in her perfect British accent, "you have nothing to trade for anything I could get you."

"I," he starts.

"Look, you are owned, and truth be told he scares the shit out of me. I'm not getting involved."

"I just,"

She cuts him off. "What part of no don't you understand. N O, no, it's more than my hide's worth. Do you know why they call him Angel? It's not because of soup kitchens and charitable works."

No, Dean thinks, it's because he is beautiful and terrible and absolute.

***

Even when he's sick, lying in his Master's bed dying, his Master curls in behind him to watch the sun rise and set through the skyscrapers. He's so blessedly cold and Dean's so hot, itchy, sweaty, that Dean lies to himself and says it's why he leans back into his chest as his Master murmurs to him, kissing the skin just in front of his ear and Dean just watches the sun rise.

Other than those times he doesn't see his Master at all.

***

Marcus is his Master's liaison to the senior partners. He doesn't come to the office often and when he does it never bodes well. Dean is still sick when he comes, curled up on his Master's couch with a blanket and a book. Harmony checking on him every half hour.

Marcus, like his Master, is a big man. He doesn't wear suit jackets because he always looks like he is about to explode out of them, instead he wears a black shirt and tie. He always ignores Dean entirely and that's the way that Dean prefers it.

This man, whether he likes it or not, is the go between between his Master and the Senior Partners, and the Senior Partners are not just demons, they are princes of Hell. Marcus is ruthless, cold and brutal. He looks like he should be a hunter. He is talking about the "murder" of arch demon Otrath and his Master just smiles, leaning back in the chair and links his fingers in front of his chest. "So," he says. "We always knew there would be casualties to this plan of action."

Marcus looks over his shoulder at Dean. "You always did like to reap the whirlwind, Angelus." He says. "But remember, vampire, you reap what you sow. And deals with upstairs are just as dangerous as those from the basement."

***

Suspension means something different to his Master than human resources.  
Suspension means Dean hanging from ropes from the ceiling. His master prefers jute ropes, and ties them just tight enough to bruise but not enough to cut off circulation. He explains everything meticulously. Even the reason for the rough edge to the rope.

Dean is bound in a diamond pattern and then suspended by a series of loops at his back. One leg is pulled out, the other fixed to his ankle. He is blindfolded last of all. His Master adjusts the height and Dean want's to struggle, to fight, but his Master's hand is on his forehead and he stabilises.

He has a vibrating butt plug buzzing in his ass, which suggests his Master wants to use his mouth so he opens wide, but his Master just runs oiled hands here and there over his body. Cold oiled hands over his cock and then gone. Pinched nipples. "Talk to me, baby," his Master murmurs in his ear, and Dean knows he could be either one inch or ten foot over the ground.

"Master," Dean stabs out the word, "I want, I want."

"I know you do, baby," his master continues. "I know."

"Master, please!"

"Tell me, Dean, tell me."

"Fuck me," Dean starts to struggle, "fuck me please, I want you to fuck me." And Dean doesn't care any more that he might fall, that he might break. Or if his Master is too rough, or if anyone sees him. he wants this. He wants this.

Then a cold, wet mouth closes around his cock and Dean screams. The toy within him is moved slightly, back and forth, not thrusting, not even rocking, just shifting. Then both it and the mouth are gone.

***

The man on the roof is new to Dean, and he has sad eyes, but not pitying. He is wearing a ruffled suit and a rain coat though the weather is Los Angeles clear. When he sees Dean he tilts his head. "I wondered if you would follow me, Dean." He says.

Dean steps closer to better take him out.

"Here." The man with such sad blue eyes holds out his hand and drops something into Dean's. Dean doesn't remember lifting his arm. It's a pocket watch, ticking faintly under glass and brass. "And remember, you are loved, more than you will ever know."

Then the man is gone as if he was never there and Dean is left holding the half hunter pocket watch in his hands.

He gives it to his Master, sitting on the cushion beside his chair and resting his head against his thigh.

"Does this mean you've finally given in?" his Master asks.

Dean smiles. "No," he says listening to the tick tick tick of the watch in his Master's hand. "I just get to kill more monsters this way."

**Author's Note:**

> this story has dean in a bdsm contract with Angelus in which he thinks he's a prisoner, he fights because it's his nature although the story implicitly suggests he finds a peace in his submission. He at one point even seduces Angel but comes up with an excuse for it instead of the truth (Jealousy) because it is entirely from Dean's POV he lies to himself and it should be blatant as you read on.  
> this is why it's labelled with dub-con, because dean tells himsef no but in his head says yes, Angel is aware of this and might even enjoy it.  
> Dean finds peace in his submission but Angel has to work to make Dean submit even to himself, Dean agreed to this thinking he was going to go to hell (having sold his soul at the end of s2) however Angel has bought out his contract, Dean is distraught because he thinks this voided his deal, but Sam is shown healthy and well, but oblivious to Dean's situation.  
> The story ends with it suggesting that Angel made a deal with Heaven for Dean (and thus circumvented the Lucifer storyline) and Castiel giving Dean a token he wanted to give Angel (the watch)
> 
> Angel collars Dean with a magic collar and makes suggestions he'd turn him and bind him with his human soul to keep him, but Dean considers these threats not promises.


End file.
